


those seeking, find (great heroes beyond counting)

by skirfer



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Inquisitor Pentaghast, Other, daemon AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skirfer/pseuds/skirfer
Summary: Some events of the Inquisition, as told with daemons, and Cassandra as acting Inquisitor.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainRivaini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainRivaini/gifts).



> A late christmas / early birthday present for my dear friend. I thank the weird flukey nature of the tumblr mutual system every day for meeting her. Quill is her baby and not mine.

 

**_PROLOGUE_ **

 

The air is hefty here, wet and heady and warm, the weight of the jungle near suffocating. In leather armor, it is worse. Little can be done about it apart from stripping bare - impossible when they are waist deep in brambles. These were the least treacherous of the jungle’s challenges. More was to come, from the forest and beyond.

Rook is many things, but complacent is not one of them.

“By my dear bloody fucking Maker, it’s boiling out.” They wipe the sweat from their forehead but it does little good, the wet rag already warm. “When will this jungle end?”

“Approximately never,” Delman pipes. His poor human complexion has gone red. “Never, never, never, I’m going to be stuck in these filthy robes forever, and I’ll never see another bath again, by the Maker, why did we do this?”

Maggie picks up a branch and hurls it at his back. He doubles over, yelling, face meeting the dirt.

“What was that for?”

“Ain’t never gonna get out of the forest with your attitude,” she calls from behind. “Keep walking, you noodle-armed deepstalker." 

Harrett and Francesca lag the furthest behind, though they both carry the lightest packs. The heaviest pack falls to Rook - naturally, as they are the largest, their warrior, and a kossith on top of that. Maggie carries the next largest, the one filled with all of their magical tomes and artifacts. She would carry the heaviest if she weren't an elf and the pack didn’t weigh as much as she did.

Rook knows the trek is longer still, a few hours until another clearing. Even then, it is only a brief respite, enough time to make camp and stay a night, but not long enough to truly rest their tired bodies. They won't mention that to the others.

In particular when their company consists of a band of merry apostates with absolutely no physicality to speak of.

“Hill up ahead,” Rook calls, and they hear a collective groan behind them. It’s by no means large, but even a knee-height hill is challenging for mages unaccustomed to long periods of travel.

“Maker,” Delman groans. “We’re almost there though, right? Nearly there, and then we can put the bloody ocularum down, and you can go talk to your bloody - brother - sister - sibling - thing,” he spits.

Maggie trots to the front of the party, facing Rook. She's certainly not as worn out as the others, but sheer willpower alone could keep her upright for days, Rook thinks. Still, her skin glistens with sweat, unavoidable in the harsh summer.

“So,” she says, a little breathless as they continue on. “Is it a brother or a sister?”

Rook’s eyebrows press together. “What?”

“Your… sibling,” she continues. “Brother or sister?”

“Uh, neither,” Rook answers. That much is honest. They keep the brisk pace even as Delman lags behind with Harrett and Francesca.

“You can’t be neither. You have to be one or the other.”

Someone pipes up from behind. “No woman could have those shoulders. I believe he may be a man.” Francesca’s normally lilting voice is strained with effort.

“Qunari women could certainly have those shoulders. Definitely a woman.” Harrett sounds equally as pained by the journey.

“Moot point, since qunari gender their people according to occupation,” Delman states proudly. “I studied them extensively - fine, maybe only briefly, but my point still stands. The real question is - what does your sibling do, exactly?”

Jobs are for qunari, and neither they nor their sibling are of the qun, but that's a technicality beyond their conversation. “They’re unemployed, I suppose.”

Maggie makes a displeased noise and waves her hands as if brushing the answer off.

“All qunari have their jobs. They all get jobs thrown on them, right?”

“Right. So, Rook, which is it?”

Rook sighs. Their journey grows shorter with each passing footstep. “They’re a mage. In qunlat, a _saarebas. Bas_ means thing. They are a thing. Not a man or a woman, a thing.”

“A thing.” Delman almost sounds disappointed. “I suppose we’re all things, according to the Qun, aren’t we?”

“Yep."

“Huh.” Delman stares off into the shrouded horizon.

Francesca grins, the way she does when she’s getting ready to insult someone. “Not a man but a thing. Harrett, you and the qunari share a lot in common. Perhaps conversion is in order.”

Maggie howls in laughter while Harrett weakly protests. Delman’s silent, gasping chuckle nearly makes him choke on the thick fog. Francesca’s grin only grows stronger when Maggie slaps Harrett’s back so hard he nearly keels over.

“Harrett, the bass,” she says. “Hartass.”

“No no, you have to put emphasis on the ‘ah’ sound, like this,” Delman states. “B-ah-s.”

“You sound silly.” Francesca waves off his poor enunciation. “Clearly you are meant to extend the ‘z’ sound, like ‘baz.’”

“Francesca, our resident Qunlat expert, will be giving the full lecture tomorrow after supper.”

Rook smiles. Something to keep them busy.

For the rest of the trek, the four of them parrot _saarebas_ at each other until the sun hangs so low in the sky that the fog lights up the color of fire. The conversation keeps them from tiring even in the final stretches of jungle. Slowly, too slowly, the dewy coolness of the night washes the oppressive heat off of them. A welcome respite, if only for a little more time walking, Rook thinks.

Camp is a weakly flickering fire and bedrolls tossed on the ground around a mass of magical books the size of Maggie’s torso. The four of them splay out on their bedrolls, the exhaustion of almost a full day’s journey sinking into their bones. Rook stretches their legs. Their boots dry with the others, soaked completely through.

Tomorrow they will set up the ocularum. Even now, the ocularum whisper to them, the calls of another time, a hole between the world of the living and the world they wander now. Ghosts of the Fade itself speak through the empty skulls, leaving a hollow glow in their eye sockets. The ocularum even speak to each other when in close enough proximity. They trade secrets of the eras, arcane knowledge lost and remembered over again.

Perhaps that's important to their company, but not to Rook. Tomorrow, the ocularum will speak to their brothers in Seheron from their extent of the Void.

Somewhere, deep in Seheron’s jungles, Ymisra will answer.

They must be warned of everything that is to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhh


	2. Quill

_“Corypheus is not the cause.”_

 

_“What now, Hannibal?”_

 

_“Corypheus is the symptom, not the ailment.”_

 

_“Yes, I can see that clear as day. Anything else?”_

 

_“The creature and his dragon could not have come into being alone. They are destruction given form, but for what reason? They distract you.”_

 

_“Go on.”_

 

_“Whatever orchestrated its presence, it is neither demon nor spirit. They do not have the foresight. It is strategizing. It is playing a game.”_

 

-

 

**_QUILL_ **

 

Distantly, the door to the wing opens and shuts.

Quill frowns. Something about the sound takes her out of her focus, and gives her the urge to jump from bed and run to her staff. Nothing, surely, but she cannot help the shivers that raise the hairs on the back of her neck.

When the door to their proper quarters opens, louder this time, she startles. She bookmarks the tome in her lap, a thousand year old missive on the first of the Magisters and their exaggeratedly fearsome daemons. Putting it aside, she stretches her aching neck, heavy covers pooling in her lap. Her lover’s voice drifts to her from behind the bed’s thick curtains.

“Part them for me, will you? It has been… A very long day.”

Quill does, and though the sight of Doreah warms her, she looks ragged, sword belt already dangling uselessly from her hips. “Indeed it was, or you wouldn’t come looking like a corpse.”

“Closer to the truth than you realize.” Doreah sits on the bed and shakes off her boots. “I received word the Inquisitor would like to expand into Crestwood.”

Quill makes a face. “The lake infested with the undead?”

“Precisely the one.” Doreah collapses backwards into the covers.

She laughs, threading her fingers through Doreah’s silken black hair. “I pity you, poor noble, shuffling coin around endlessly.”

Doreah groans and tries to extract herself from her grasp, but Quill leans forward faster, kissing her deeply. She stills, some of the tension bleeding from her body. The silence fills the room. For a moment, the world is only them, and the downy bed beneath them.

Their kiss gains only a second of fervor before Doreah parts with a pained groan. She reaches behind her to pull the book from under her. “Must the Tevene bind their books with iron?”

“All the better to pain their lovers.”

Doreah scoffs and pulls herself up. “Let me change.”

“Oh no, you’re taking all of your clothes off. Whatever will I do.”

“Not tonight, ama.” Doreah takes her shirt off. Quill takes a moment to stare. Years upon years of dueling show in the lines of her back, the shifting of muscle beneath her skin. “Also… I am too tired to keep him away...”

The sounds of panting breaths and rapid, clawing footsteps come to her from the doorway. Antony jumps through the curtains onto their bed. “Signora! Good to see you.”

“Oh, lovely, my favorite pup,” Quill says, reaching forward to grab his ears. “Long day for you as well, fearsome boy?”

“Oh, signora, you have no idea,” he says, lavishing the attention, his stub of a tail wiggling relentlessly.

“Quiet, you.” Doreah crawls into bed behind her. “Diplomacy is not for dogs.”

“I carry half of your grief and your frustration, dona. That alone is cause enough.”

The exhaustion must be to the bone, Quill thinks, watching Antony crawl closer to Doreah. Quill remembers nights running from the Magisterium’s assassins, where the mental exertion was so much that she and Hannibal could scarcely be meters apart. She could not imagine what it would be like without magic to extend her range. Doreah and Antony are shackled to each other like this, melting into the covers as they are.

Quill lies back against the pillows, resting against Doreah’s side. The warmth is welcome in the brisk air. Antony curls up at their feet, radiating a gentle heat against her legs. She draws the tome from the covers and opens it up again.

“What are you reading?”

“ _On the Nature of Man and Beast_ ,” Quill says. “It’s more about magic than the title would lead you to believe.”

Quill is gifted with a few moments of peace before she returns to the spot she left off, and is reminded why she hates high Tevene.

“What does this say?” Doreah points to a word on the edges of a blood-letting circle, the diagram beyond her knowledge of the arcane.

“Na praevibio craedis Soporati.” Though she can barely translate it. “It means the seal can only drink mage blood.”

“That seems fairly obvious if it’s blood magic, no?”

“Clearly you need to spend more time in Tevinter,” she quips. “Less than half of it is done with mage blood. Magisters like it when other people bleed for them. Hence - “

“Why you love me, yes, I know.” Doreah kisses Quill’s temple.

She does not flinch away like she once did. Instead she groans into Doreah’s neck, limp against her, suppressing her smile as Doreah laughs into her hair. “We’ve been over this, amante,” she says, mouth against her skin.

“Over what, that you do not love me and are using me for my money and status?” Doreah’s voice grows heavier as she chill of the autumn leaves her.

“Maybe I am,” Quill says. “Maybe you’re just using me for sex and magical prowess.”

“You have discovered my secret motives,” she says, the arm around Quill softening. Doreah plays quietly with the ends of her hair. Sleep will come to her soon, Quill thinks, and to herself not long after. Her eyes hurt from staring at the pages for so long.

She closes the book. The magisterium’s old words are seared behind her eyelids. A god alone can break the gates of heaven. A god alone. A god...

Hannibal reaches out, silently, as if not to wake her if she sleeps.

His presence distances itself. He is ready to explore. The heat of both Antony and Doreah will keep her sound asleep for some time. She reminds him of the small journal hidden in the old archives, and of the tiny vial of blood next to it. He will want to play with blood magic, surely, but with no blood of his own he must make due with limited resources.

Doreah stirs under her. “Go to sleep.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

She groans, relishing the quiet chuckle in Doreah’s chest. Her heart beats steady, calmly. Part of her wants to be relieved she no longer has to worry about hearing it end but she stamps the feeling down. If Corypheus’ daemon decides to burn Skyhold down, she does not want to be surprised.

Sleep comes to her like the fog creeping over the sky. In her dreams, Hannibal swims across a lake into the Fade, and touches the Golden City with an inky black wing.

  
  



	3. Cassandra

_“The mask, what does it mean?”_

 

_“It means I am saarebas.”_

 

_“And what does that mean?”_

 

_“Dangerous thing.”_

 

_\----_

 

**_CASSANDRA_ **

 

The storm meets them before they reach Crestwood. A deluge of dark, muddy water runs over the roads, so powerful their horses can scarce walk through it. It takes them ten hours to reach the forward camp, more than twice as long as the journey here and half the distance.

The fat droplets feel like hail on Cassandra’s face. She swipes her hair. It is slicked to her brow, so soaked she cannot keep it out of her eyes. “I meant to cut it. Pity,” she complains, though nobody would hear it over the downpour.

The smell of venison stew floats to them even through the musty smell of wet oak and mud. A hot meal would be welcome after hours of travel, even moreso when it was almost all through swamp. She pities their mounts.

She pities Ymisra even more. They had chosen to travel alone. Though they arrived sooner than she did, surely they did so because they were not burdened by heavy equipment. The bog is a harrowing thing even on horseback. Cassandra imagines it on foot, and shudders.

At the camp, the soldiers feed the flickering campfire, struggling to keep it alight. Something bubbles in the pot. Cassandra’s stomach grumbles and so does she.

Paola claps a heavy, armored hand on her shoulder plate. “You as well, Inquisitor?”

“Paola, please,” she says, exasperated. “Let me rest away from the title.”

“Do not take any title you are not prepared to become,” she answers. “My mother told me that once. She has told me it was the worst advice she ever gave.” The hearty chuckle she gives taunts her.

The moon hangs so low and so large in the sky that it could be daylight. Cassandra feels the ache and grogginess in her, awake for half a day or longer, but cannot find the desire to sleep. It would be best to rest, but the urgency of Scout Harding’s report makes her want to trade her horse for a fresh mount and be onward. Soon.

“Knight-Commander,” she summons. “Has the voyage exhausted you?”

“‘Paola-please-we-are-too-personal-for-titles-now,’” she parrots back. “Some of my contingent have told me they wish to stay at camp, but I do not feel the same. Arrange your vanguard. My ass hurts from the ride, I want to swing a sword.”

Behind her, a lioness pads forward, the muscle on her visible through the cropped fur. Corinne’s paws squelch into the noise. The displeasure shows on her face - she is strangely expressive for a big cat, and Cassandra has always found it amusing.

“You are alone then, in that regard.” Her voice is deep, clear, a shadow of a roar. “My fur is filthy and I feel filthy. And you smell like the stables. Both of you.”

Cassandra feels heat on her cheeks. She sounds too much like her mother for comfort. “I had intended to arrange for a forward party to go to Crestwood, but…”

She cannot say she isn’t tempted by the comforts of camp. Ideally, she would make the trek with dry boots at least, but the rain will not stop soon, not with the clouds so dark and fierce in the skies.

“Arrange it, Inquisitor. Let me and my men eat together, and then we can be off.” Behind Paola, Corinne sighs, defeated.

The lyrium from the morning makes her bold. Cassandra sees it in the trace blue glow in her irises. It is best to use her while she is fresh with it, templars cannot feel fear while they are with lyrium, Cassandra thinks. They will move soon.

Gratefully, she takes the small bowl of stew a soldier presses into her hand, spooning a mouthful of vegetables and a chunk of venison into her mouth. The taste of rainwater does not spoil it. Thawed by the fire, the leather under her heavy plate and mail seems softer even. It is unwise but she enjoys it for a moment.

She looks for Yavaris in the dark clouds. On any other day, the hawk would shine gold in the sun, or stark against the snow white sky. But today, the fog is thick, and Yavaris is nowhere to be seen. Cassandra cannot call for it. Yavaris has not answered the call since before she became a Seeker.

Yavaris sends her a vision of the rift, an open wound over the lake’s tumbling waters. Another of a tall, horned figure approaching her from behind. Then her mind is clear and silent once more.

Cassandra spoons the final mouthful of stew into her mouth and swallows quickly. She rises to meet them. Their leather serape has shielded them from most of the torrent but their hair is plastered to their face with rain. It seems to not bother them at all.

“Ymisra.” After months of practice, she is no longer ashamed of how Nevarran butchers the name. “You are well, I hope?”

“I am.” The gold mask hides their eyes. They tilt their head, regarding her curiously. “We leave for the village soon?”

Their uncanny perception no longer startles her. “The Knight-Commander and I, yes. We will need you for the rift over the lake. I cannot ask you to strain yourself with a trip to the village.”

A smile creeps onto their face. Their long white hair sticks slightly to their lips. “Did you think my journey was difficult, Inquisitor?”

Cassandra frowns. “You travelled on foot, did you not? Through the marsh?”

“Inquisitor, I have told you once before that I was a Fog Dancer.”

The conversation seemed so mundane at the time she had thought nothing of it. Now she flushes at her own forgetfulness. “...Yes. You did.”

Their smile does not fade. “Your trip will be easier if I am with you.”

“I imagine it would be.”

Now is when it disappears. “You do not want me to accompany you?”

“I want you rested, and ready to fight the demons that will surely come out of the rift.” Cassandra faces the lake. “If you are unable to close the rift because of exhaustion, that will be more dangerous than the rain.”

Their lips purse. “Very well, Inquisitor.”

She did not like that tone of voice. It had taken her months to learn to read them, and not once had they followed a direct order. When confronted, they had only said it was the nature of Vashoth. Surely, this meant they would follow, especially since it was only her and Paola.

A piercing shriek drifts to her from above. Instinctually, she extends her arm, the breeze from Yavaris’ wings over her face. She can feel the talons digging into her armored falconer’s glove. Yavaris looks behind her. Paola approaches, Corinne in tow.

“Hearty stew these Fereldans make,” Paola comments. “In Antiva, the food is so fresh and light you can eat three helpings and still feel empty. Here just one can feed a hungry warrior. I admire their simplicity.”

Corinne rolls her eyes. “Next time they will hand you a club to eat your food with.”

Cassandra turns back to face Ymisra, but they are gone. Prodding Yavaris’ mind yields no information. “Then we are finished here?”

“By your leave, Inquisitor.”

“Knight-Commander.”

 _“Inquisitor,”_ she repeats, laughing loudly. She claps her on the back again. “Come. Let us waste no more time.”

They pass Old Crestwood in a hurry, not a glance to spare for the sunken town. The rest of the paved road passes faster than the swamplands before. Her steps quicken. Yavaris senses the presence of something dark, and flies overhead to scout the town.

Crestwood village has only a meager barricade against an army of the dead. The stone wolves at its gates are covered in grime, tears of rain flowing down their cheeks. A guardsman has already fallen to the undead before him, and his remaining brothers strike it fiercely, but it does not back off like a bandit would.

Cassandra draws her sword and shield. “Trouble.”

Wordlessly, Paola draws her greatsword, Corinne taking her place beside her. Her long, tapered claws dig into the mud when she prowls forward, and when they spot the first undead, Corinne strikes. In a moment, the body is overwhelmed. She tackles it to the ground, ripping an arm off with her teeth. Her claws tear its chestpiece to shreds.

Paola swings into a second, caving its already sunken chest in. She follows up with a brutal pommel strike to its head, bursting it open with a gurgling pop. It does not bleed, Cassandra notes, not having engaged either.

Dry meat falls off of Corinne’s teeth. “Filthy creatures. Clean my teeth when we return to camp.”

“Yes, Maker knows you won’t let me stop tasting it.” Paola spits on the ground, her expression curdled.

The gate guards stand with their jaws open exaggeratedly. “I-Inquisition,” one says, hurriedly opening the gate. “Come in, please help us. We have no means to defend against the undead.”

Cassandra steps forward, sheathing her blade and shield in one motion. “We will spare a few men. We are here to close the rift on the lake.” And to find a renegade grey warden, but that goes unspoken.

“Talk to the mayor. He’s hidi - in his house, farthest one to the north. Good luck, Inquisition.”

  
  



	4. Ymisra

_“Your… twin, will be coming with us to Skyhold?”_

 

_“Yes. They are my arvaarad - my protector.”_

 

_“I have never seen you need protecting.”_

 

_“I have never seen anything. That is why I need Istikra. They are my arvaarad.”_

 

_“I… understand. If they see for you, I will give them a place in the Inquisition.”_

 

_-_

 

**_YMISRA_ **

 

Travel without Istikra is proving harder than anticipated.

Though Ymisra can feel their way through the winding wood, the mud makes them feel like an invalid. With no guide, their shoulders bump the trees harshly, horns getting caught in thick foliage.

Not for the first time, they resent the deep green rift in their hand.

There’s a quiet resentment for their sibling in the Beyond, too, though they stamp it down in an instant. Rook has never done them harm. Their aid sometimes simply leads them in directions unanticipated. Like into an exploding Chantry.

If not for Rook - if not for the Anchor, they correct themselves - they would see as far as the horizon. Once, before the Inquisition, Kaaras showed them the world as only a daemon can.

Endless green seas, jungle stretching endlessly into the horizon. A maze of color and light, sun dappling shadows onto the trees. Their twin, perched in their branches, hand carved arrows expertly piercing their prey. Themselves, asleep against the trunk of a tree, Fade-walking as the Fog Dancers do.

For a time, they called Kaaras their arvaraad, and they needed no other. Since the breach, however, Istikra showed them to see with their hands and ears and nose. In Skyhold, it was easy.

Not so in the middle of Crestwood hold. Rainfall drowns nearly all smell and sound, save for the clashing of metal, and the unmistakable roar of the templar’s lioness. Ymisra trails behind them, keeping close enough to hear their voices, parting the fog where they feel it is thickest in front of them.

The stress of focusing so far ahead of their own form wears on them. Again, they wish for Kaaras to be their eyes.

They hide even as the two of them take Caer Bronach alone. Ymisra takes the time to rest. The feeling of suppression, the disruption of the magic in their veins, it’s almost too much to handle at a distance. With them, it would feel like the weight of a mountain. They cleave their way through the bandits with the assured ease of warriors who believe in the afterlife. The templar in particular is brutal, relentless with her sword. Ymisra can hear the roaring of her lion from afar and the bellow of her war cries.

After the battle, they stop to strategize. Ymisra pads forward as softly as they can to listen. Mercifully, the soft grass muffles their step. They wear nothing that makes sound, but feeling their way around the wall unsettles them.

“The warden is not far from here. Assuming our contacts are correct.” The templar sounds short of breath. Little wonder, since she has not rested in nigh a day.

“The quicker we move, the quicker we can return to our warm beds,” the lioness grumbles.

They can picture Cassandra frowning in contemplation. “You are right. But we cannot leave the villagers with an open rift on their lands. I will send for Ymisra and a small squadron to set up Caer Bronach while we - “

A stone slips from the wall they had been gripping. Ymisra curses.

A dangerous growl shakes the wall behind them.

They rise, hands open, and walk into their view. The templar sheathes her greatsword. Cassandra scoffs. “I had wondered when you would show up.”

They shrug.

“I will still need to send Yavaris for the troops to move camp,” she says. “Why did you follow us?”

“The corpses carry the Blight and it is thick in the air. I kept the fog from you so you wouldn’t die.”

Cassandra is silent for a moment. “I am shaking my head now.”

“I had a feeling.”

She sighs. Boots squelch in the mud. “This saves us some time. Let us find the warden and return to Caer Bronach. We will deal with the rift in the morning.”

The softened thud of leather hitting metal. “By your leave, Inquisitor.”

“Knight-Commander,” Cassandra groans. Ymisra cannot help the small laugh that escapes them. They follow Cassandra’s thudding footsteps.

It is not long before they slow. Caer Bronach was in the middle of Crestwood hold, it was no wonder they reached the hideout so soon, even with the damned storm still overhead. They touch the edges of a wooden doorway and rock - a cave. Cassandra pulls their head down with her fingers to the back of their horns. They are grateful to be spared the painful blow to their horns, and for the warm torches that line the entrance of the cave.

The wood on the walls seems to soak up footfalls, not like the generous, resonant stone in Skyhold. Still, they can use the echoes here better than in the downpour. They run a claw over the wall as they walk further into the cave. The warmth of Cassandra’s torch draws them like a moth. Cassandra does not seem to mind the contact, as they keep a hand resting on her platemail, feeling when she takes steps down and where she avoids rocks.  The mouth of the cave shrinks as they walk further in, they notice, pulling the cobwebs from their horns.

The templar shoves their shoulder when they step forward. “Enough of this, let us find the warden and go back t - “

Something in chainmail moves. The templar chokes, fighting against something gripping the breath from her throat. Cassandra is on her in a heartbeat, pulling the arm from her throat, and Ymisra calls a spell to their hands in the instant Cassandra yells.

“Wait!” Cassandra grips Paola’s shoulders as she collapses, coughing, onto her. “We are Inquisition, looking for the warden, we are not your enemy -”

“Well, you had me bloody fooled,” an affronted, woman’s voice says. “Come in here stomping, looking for a warden, hell, sorry for assuming.” She takes a few deep breaths. “You scared the tits off of me, you know?”

Paola coughs as angrily as she can. “Terror of the darkspawn too busy to look at standards?”

“Maybe I would, if you had any on you. All I see is a templar, and… Are you… A Seeker? And what’s a qunari doing with you?”

“Was,” Cassandra says. “I was a Seeker. Now, I act as Inquisitor. And Ymisra - “

“ - Can speak for themselves,” Ymisra supplies.

“I - Yes, Indeed they can.”

The new new voice continues before they can. “Ah, yes, now I understand. The templar, the ex-Seeker, and the qunari that can speak for themselves.” The voice sounds amused. “Well, we can probably do better introductions, can’t we?”

A male voice, filled with mirth, speaks next. “Indeed we can. I am the fearsome Grey Warden, Bronwyn, slayer of Archdemons, the Blight on the Blight,” he says. “And this is Regan.”

“Hello, that’s me.”

“Together, we act as Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. Or, we used to. Until now. Because of the demons.”

“Yes, the demons really did put a hamper on our vacation plans, didn’t they?”

“No early retirement for us,” Bronwyn finishes off. “Please, come in. We have…”

“...Water.”

“Refreshments!”

Cassandra shakes her head next to them. “Of course the Hero of Ferelden has a sense of humor.”

“Just our luck,” Corinne grumbles bitterly.

“Nevertheless, we must move quickly, Warden-Commander. Our forces are preparing Caer Bronach for your arrival. We leave for Skyhold past the morrow, once the rift in the lake is sealed.” Cassandra’s voice is rife with authority and impatience.

The Warden-Commander rummages around in her belongings. “Right, of course. I’ll let you off the hook until tomorrow. But I _will_ ask you all my questions.”

“And, oh, there are so very many,” Bronwyn chuckles.

 

 


	5. Regan

_ “Maybe I should go and talk to her, she just… Seems so lonely.” _

 

_ “Maybe you should think about why she seems so lonely? Maybe it’s because she can’t make friends, because she’s a Witch of the Wilds?” _

 

_ “I’m going to go and talk to her.” _

 

_ “Don’t come croaking to me when you get turned into a toad. For what it’s worth - if tonight’s dinner is frog leg soup, I’ll mourn you.” _

 

_ “Maker, she could eat me alive any day.” _

 

_ “What?” _

 

_ “Nothing!” _

 

_ \--- _

 

**_REGAN_ **

 

True to her word, the Inquisitor’s camp in Caer Bronach had an extra tent set up for her. She wakes to the sound of the newborn bustling of soldiers unfamiliar with their fort. Murmurs of guards rotating, the grumbling of stewards, it makes her a little nostalgic for Vigil’s Keep. Still, the day is young, and without the night fire, her tent is cold. Regan shuffles into yesterday’s smelly clothes and straps her chainmail on.

A handful of the soldiers nod solemnly at her and two even greet her with a salute, but most pay her no mind. The legendary Hero of Ferelden is but a memory, some of the soldiers so young she could have been a bedside story. With Corypheus hanging overhead, she is grateful to be unobtrusive, though some whispers about the warden in the camp do float their way back to her. Nothing too incriminating - though overhearing a raunchy mutter about her figure nearly makes her choke on her porridge. 

She can see the Inquisitor and her party from her seat by the fire. When she’s done scraping breakfast from the bowl, she puts it aside to greet them. Only a little bit of self consciousness presents itself, when she realizes that the Inquisitor and templar gleam in the sun, and her own armor is so shapeless and grimy the light barely reflects off of its surface. Bronwyn scuffs a bit of dirt off her shoulder with his tail before they make it to them.

The Inquisitor - Cassandra, as she prefers, turns to her, face set in grim determination. “Warden-Commander.”

“Inquisitor, good morning, sorry to be running late. Will we be heading back to your hold?”

“No. Not until we secure the rift in Old Crestwood.” Cassandra looks toward the valley of the now drained lake. “I had anticipated it being above ground, but… It is no longer there.”

“Could it have moved? Do rifts even do that?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “I don’t believe so. We will return soon. Pack your things in the meanwhile, Warden-Commander.”

“What? No, I’m absolutely coming with you. I’m not missing out on this.” Regan puts on her prize-winning, roguish smile. “Besides - you asked about Corypheus, now I get to ask about the Inquisition.”

“And you get the blade that slew the Archdemon by your side,” Bronwyn supplies helpfully. “There’s no losing.”

Ahead of them, the templar woman shifts impatiently. “Come, Inquisitor. We have work to do.”

Regan does not wait for an answer, jogging up to meet her.

Crestwood is blissfully temperate without the sea of rainwater. A little nippy, thanks to the cool dew on the grass, and the wetness of the air in the autumn, but the sun slowly begins to warm the ground as they walk. Bronwyn is pleased with the change in scenery. He preens himself idly, and her too, picking the dirt from the cave out of her hair.

Regan has always loved the Fereldan coast. The horizon is awash with color. Emerald green pines, the warm brown of the clay, jaybird blue skies. Her time at Amaranthine gave her a deep appreciation for the rural coastal farmlands. Though the city was beautiful, she had always enjoyed patrolling the countryside, gold sea of wheat on one side, dark tumult of the ocean on the other. Of course, the proximity to Denerim and her dearest friend had helped.

She lets the nostalgia wash over her a moment too long and Bronwyn gets impatient. Toward the future, he likes to remind her. He reins her thoughts in toward the present company, and lets her own curiosity drive her away from the past.

Regan decides to start with the Inquisitor, seeing as she nearly choked the templar to death, and the qunari doesn’t seem very forthcoming. “Inquisitor, I couldn’t help but notice that your daemon isn’t with us. You can put quite a distance between each other, can’t you?”

Cassandra seems reluctant to entertain the question, preoccupied with watching the steps of the qunari. “Yavaris can go where it pleases. In truth, it was like that before I had even joined the Seekers. The rituals to become a Seeker destroyed the leash between us. The Seekers of Truth all share that in common.”

“Hmm, I didn’t know that. The Joining shortens the leash between wardens and their daemons. I never minded, though.” Regan pulls a tiny jar of oysters from her belt and hands it to Bronwyn to keep him entertained on the walk.

“You were close? With your daemon.”

“Always. Even before he picked a form. Too meddlesome, this one.” She groans when Bron wipes his fingers on her face. 

Cassandra chuckles. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You… Seem like the kind of person.”

“Quick to judge, Inquisitor?” Regan laughs. “Suppose we need someone like that right now. Maker knows I chew through my fingernails when I have to decide what to have for dinner.”

She watches Cassandra bite back a grin. “But you united all of Ferelden.”

“Alistair cooked supper, not me.”

Suddenly, a shriek rings out from the skies above. The templar and her lioness stop in their tracks and turn to face the Inquisitor. The qunari draws the wooden staff from their back.

The smile drops off of Cassandra’s face. “Warden-Commander, arm yourself - the undead are nearby,” she says, drawing her sword. 

Regan slowly draws Fang and Keening from their sheaths. “I don’t see anything.”

“You don’t,” Cassandra says, running forward with her shield in front. “But it does.” Overhead, the hawk tailing them swoops downward from the sky. 

A small squadron of corpses shamble out from a building. Before Regan can even bring Keening up, Cassandra has already bashed two to the ground and slit the throat of another. Swords rang against one another, the limbs of the walking corpses shaking under her strength, trying for slashes but failing as she parries each one with her shield.

Too slow, Regan thinks, sword and dagger in hand.  Bronwyn circles to the right, and she takes the left, jabbing at the corpses’ unarmored shins. One falls crippled when she lands the swing behind its knee. Bronwyn chews off the heel of another, and soon the dozen corpses became seven. 

She jumps away from one, in the split instant that a phantom fire engulfs the body. Terror and magefire eat the body of the corpse and it collapses into ash before it can raise its sword at her. Behind her, Ymisra expertly slings bolts of fire and electricity from their blunt staff.

“You let the blind qunari shoot spells at you?!” Nobody answers, too focused on their own battles. She decides not to focus on anything but the body lunging at her, dodging a stab to her chest and burying Keening to the hilt in its belly.

Paola is savage and cruel with her greatsword. Never before had Regan seen a body cleaved in two mid battle. Men in massive armor and wielding mauls the size of their opponents could not do half the damage the templar could do in a well-aimed swing. She watches her swing through the corpses guard, lodging her sword in its shoulder. She was quick for a woman in plate, too, the ugly knotted blades missing her by handspans while she cleaves entire limbs off with a swing.

Sparks fly as Cassandra strikes the shield from the hand of one and lunges through its chest. She spits blood from her split lips. Her coal black hair sticks to her forehead.

“There will be more,” she says, steady. “Be cautious.”

Regan falls silent as the veil of Warden-Commander falls over her. Keening and Fang bite into her white-knuckled grasp. 

Indeed, as they descend down the mine near the mayor’s flooded home, the bodies come in waves. They’re mindless, stupid like darkspawn, and a party of four easily cuts through them even with their sheer numbers. But the question of where they are coming from remains. The pit is ominously deep, thunderous growling echoing inside. 

Cassandra is at the vanguard, Paola and Corinne at their backs. The light from the qunari’s hand paints the walls green. Distantly, the faint glow of red lyrium and magma lights the tunnels. 

Regan’s blood turns to ice at the sight of the dwarven architecture. “Watch your step. Nothing good ever comes out of the Deep Roads.”

The discordant song of the Calling is louder here and Regan hates it. It’s always louder in dwarven ruins, as if the very stone carries the song. They yearn to be free. She doesn’t even know who they are. She shakes the feeling from her head, focusing on the clash of armored boots against stone.

The next fight is demons. What could have been dozens of them, if Paola had not forcibly willed the magic back. The templar’s aura shields over her, and the next firey heave of the rage demon is as harmful as a strong breeze. Regan stakes it with Fang, once, twice, feeling the blade heat up in her gloved hands. A strike from Keening sends its dusted remains flying back into the rift. 

Ymisra scrambles uselessly behind. “I can’t see without magic!”

“And I can’t see with a demon trying to gouge my eyes out!” Paola yells back, blue glow of templar lyrium beating a lone spirit into submission.

Cassandra jerks her sword back from the body of a sloth demon. “Focus your energies on the rift! It is above me!” 

The wound in the Fade lets out a ripping wail. Regan turns, wild eyed, to see Ymisra’s arm extended, horrible wound on their hand flashing green. The glowing tether between the two dances like a dissonant lightningbolt. She can see the strain and focus on their face, even with the mask. Their lips curl in pain. The sound grows fiercer and fiercer still, until the tether between them erupts and sends their arm whirling back. 

They topple over with the force of the blast. Cassandra runs to their side, checking them for any injury. “Are you well?”

Both Regan and Cassandra help them up. Light for a qunari. “I’ll be fine,” they say. “The corpses were being possessed by the spirits coming out of the Fade.”

“Then there will be no more undead,” Paola says. The shortness of her breath does not go unnoticed. “And we can get back to Skyhold.”

Cassandra sighs and sheathes her sword and shield. “I will send a messenger to inform the mayor. Crestwood will rest easier now. Thank you, Warden-Commander.”

“Don’t thank me until I’ve done something substantial.” 

“Too right,” Bronwyn pipes. “Feeds her ego far too much.”

“There is work yet to be done,” Cassandra says. “Let us return to Skyhold. We cannot leave Corypheus unattended for long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im hanging onto the next couple chapters until i finish them in groups of 5 my dude bc i bit off more than i can mcfucken chew, also sorry for the formatting i have nicer formatting on the docs im using


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